


Almost Complete

by TheXWoman



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, Implied Femslash, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheXWoman/pseuds/TheXWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps that is why she goes back to the bookstore when it is all over; trying to leave the Warehouse behind in an attempt to regain some semblance of the magic again in the most ordinary of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Complete

When she was a child, the bookshelves of Bering and Sons were so tall. She can remember her earliest days standing in those cluttered stacks, staring at the rows of books that towered over her, thinking of how broad and encompassing they were. She felt so safe in their presence, as if their musty covers and the crinkle of their aged leaves built unbreakable walls around her, protecting her from a world she learned to fear as her innocence faded.

There was a book, on the top shelf in a back corner. She didn’t know its name but she wanted to touch it, and sometimes when her father wasn’t looking she would try to get it, stretching herself out as long as she could, gangly legs straining on tippy toe, tiny fingers spread in stiff determination. But it was always just out of reach.

Myka grew, of course, taller than the stacks and by the time she is tall enough she has forgotten all about that book. New challenges overcome her; new priorities, new goals, the weight of a too broken heart. Her days of feeling safe in the smell of precious pages fade, and while she still finds peace in her books the escape was never quite enough to forget the pain.

The Warehouse comes close, providing the nearest feeling she’s had to belonging since her childhood days hiding behind hardcovers; endless wonder and a magic that before had only existed in the tales printed on pages. Much like the days as a child where she spent curled in the quiet dark corners of the bookstore, Myka feels almost protected and complete.

And then there is Helena.

It wasn’t ever that she was H.G. Wells. The stories that had been penned in her name are of little consequence because it is hardly her fame that drew Myka to her; it is so much more tangible. When their fingers brush, it’s as if Myka can feel the smooth surface of stiffened paper. Every look exchanged makes her heart beat quickly in her chest, as if she is scanning the final words of a novel she doesn’t want to end. Every breath in Helena’s presence is the first time she opened a book and scanned the magic of the written word, and it is the first time Myka can remember feeling safe since her childhood days hiding in her father’s bookstore.

Perhaps that is why she goes back to the bookstore when it is all over; trying to leave the Warehouse behind in an attempt to regain some semblance of the magic again in the most ordinary of places. But the books are cold, their leathery binding dry and stiff against Myka’s fingers, and she suspects she’s lost a kind of magic that is irreplaceable. Before Pete comes back, she finds herself once again in that dark corner, remembering reaching for that book as a small child. She is taller now, longer and more broken, and the book slides out of its tiny crevice with such ease that it surprises her and her eyes run along the title.

The Works of H.G. Wells.

She pushes the book back in as if it burns her hand, though she knows even then that it is her heart that bears the wound.

And even after returning to the Warehouse, Myka finds herself searching to fill the emptiness that Helena left. Sometimes she simply walks through her section of the Warehouse, recalling the stories that they had shared, the way Helena would throw her head back and laugh. At other more painful times, Myka’s fingers run over the smooth surface of the small device that holds the echo of her friend, as if that artificial contact will be enough to ignite the darkness that lay in the wake of Helena’s betrayal. And although her life is full of wonder, both endless and not, there is always something lacking, a small section in the story of her life that no words can fill.

She finds Helena again, and loses her again. But the small moments between them are enough to drive her on; not enough to fill her, but enough to remind her of the fleeting calm and peace of days long gone. And their lives move on, and when they find one another again, too much has changed. And Myka drives away one last time, watching as Helena fades into the darkness of the street.

But for Myka, it will always be that first moment, in the street all those years ago, when their eyes met and she felt that rush of discovery. For a second again she was a child, running her fingers across the dusty spines of books, wide-eyed and innocent, surrounded by the first kind of endless wonder she had ever known. She’s taller now, stronger and more whole and yet Myka’s fingertips trace Helena’s dark outline against the glass, hoping still for the chance to simply to grasp that missing piece that would finally make her complete. But it is always just out of reach.


End file.
